


Set a Thief

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Action & Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7612795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far might you go to protect everything you ever loved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hide and Seek

Personal file recovered from the corrupted archive of Professor River Song:

++

Encrypted File ∑j/7/µ

Readers must have signed Non-Disclosure Agreement 71β or be in possession of a Mark 7 Engram Drive. Luna University accepts no liability for damage to persons or properties incurred as a result of reading this file.

_Circle Time: Phrase used by Ri’Jinn peoples to describe unusually close alignment between Time That Was and Time That Is. Theorised to be a chronological anomaly allowing intersection of the known universe with a point preceding the Great Cataclysm [see also_ Big Bang: Ωa/1/₢ _]._

_Investigation of phenomenon ceased after the annihilation of research team α786. No further research recommended._

++

* * *

 

Torchwood Archive Recording — Walker Expedition — Unknown Crew Member:

_“It's funny, isn't it? The things you make up. The rules. If that thing had said it came from beyond the universe, I'd believe it, but before the universe? Impossible. Doesn't fit my rule. Still, that's why I keep travelling. To be proved wrong.”_

 

* * *

 

“Professor,” says the Tertiary Prosecutor, conciliatory. “I _am_ sorry. But the Doctor has refused legal aid and—”

“Because he’s an idiot. I did mention that part, didn’t I?”

The little lawyer extends placatory paws; lizard mouth a thin line to begin with. “You were quite clear on it.”

She sighs. “Can I at least arrange a visitation?” Jail-breaking is something of a speciality, after all.

Apparently the Tertiary Prosecutor is also aware of this. He shakes his green head. “I’m sorry, Professor Song. I really am.”

She finds her way back outside the Supreme Court, out into boiling midday heat. Twin suns beat down as she unfurls her parasol and strides away from the gleaming marble building. _What to do, what to do_ …

Finding the TARDIS is probably the best start. Unfortunately, the Doctor, with uncharacteristic presence of mind, appears to have her shielded. Locating the ship will require luck as well as judgement. She picks her way down the street, returning the amiable nods of passing lizard-people. It seems a relatively sane and pleasant planet. What can be at the root of the Doctor’s apparent lapse of sanity, to be captured breaking inside one of their secure power facilities?

She turns suddenly, not quite sure at first what it is that has caught her attention. Instinct, the kind honed over decades of adventure, has drawn her out of reverie. Her eyes narrow. A uniformed officer. Not running, but walking quickly. Then another. And another. Moving calmly back up the street; towards the Court.

At times like this it is important to be seen, to be witnessed. Standing away from the Court building, both hands occupied with her parasol and handbag. Absolutely no question that she is not complicit in the Doctor’s escape.

Alarms start to blare.

River grins.

* * *

 

“So, no luck on Kitian IV.”

River prides herself on being able to get along with almost anyone, but there’s something about the Lady Me that scrapes across her nerves like a file. Maybe it’s the grin; that sense that something somewhere is oh-so-funny and she’s just missed the joke. Or the feeling that somehow she just doesn’t _quite_ measure up—

“No,” she says, nodding to the barkeep. “He escaped before I had the chance to arrange a meeting.”

“And no ideas as to where he went next?”

“Or when.”

“The man’s a tidal wave,” says Me, shaking her head as she swirls the ice in her glass. “How can it be this difficult to find him?”

“He’s running,” River replies, receiving her own drink. She takes a sip, almost winces at the burn. “You know better than most, if the Doctor doesn’t want to be found…”

“He can be trapped.”

River puts down her glass, very deliberately. “And how well did that work out last time?”

Me shrugs. “Fairly appallingly. Or brilliantly, depending on who you ask. And when.”

There’s the nub of it, River supposes. “Clara Oswald?”

“She can find him.”

“ _I_ can find him.”

Me turns those too-knowing eyes on her. “No,” she says, steadily, “You can _call_ him. There’s a difference. Clara’s who we need when he’s not answering. The trouble is, these days, she’s about as difficult to pin down as he is.”

“Well, you travelled with her. Where’s the first place you’d look?”

“That’s the problem. Exactly the same place you’d hope to find him.”


	2. The Divine Empress

“Ostentatious,” mutters River, torn between disapproval and admiration.

Me tilts her head, taking in the rococo flourishes of the chamber. “Time Lords,” she sneers back. “Were they ever known for quiet and understated?”

A courtier enters the throne room, clutching an oversized trumpet. He plays a flourish and Her Grace, Her Worshipfulness, Her Most Worthy, The Divine Empress of the First Great Galactic Free Empire enters, smiling beatifically. Her smile does not fade so much as drain when she sees the two women standing audience.

“Oh,” says Missy petulantly, “it’s you two.”

“Missy,” returns Me, insouciant as ever. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

“What do you want?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, if it’s _boring_ , I’m going to have my guards take you prisoner and let something awful happen to you. I’ve been thinking about bringing back the Torment of the Imperial Eagles. You know, like that old Earth myth?”

“Prometheus?” offers River.

“That’s the one. The trouble is it’s so difficult getting humans to re-grow livers… Anyway. Back to my original question. Come on! We haven’t got all day. Well, you certainly haven’t.”

“We need your help.”

Missy rolls her eyes. “Heard that before. Not interested. And, unfortunately for you, not _interesting_.”

“To find the Doctor,” adds Me.

Missy shrugs. “Why would I do a thing like that? _You_ know better than most what a terrible old fuddy-duddy he is. I can’t bear the thought of him standing in here going on and on about such _dull_ things as causal imperative, the proper flow of history, or the rights of my subjects to not have their innards torn out by bioengineered eagles. No, no. I’m sorry but… it’s _definitely_ the pit for both of you. Guards!”

River’s hand is halfway to the holster of her pistol, but the threatened sentinels fail to materialise. 

Me crosses her arms, shaking her head. “This is just embarrassing.”

Missy pulls out her handheld terminal, pressing buttons, frowning. “Oh, for goodness sake!” she growls.

“What? What’s happened?”

“You bought him here!”

“No-no- we didn’t—”

“Then why else is my Capitol suddenly in flaming rebellion?”  snarls the Time Lady, raising the handheld to blast both women into disintegration.

“I can see we’ve caught you at a bad time,” says River, backing away. She feels the flash of heat as the Time Lady’s weapon discharges into her personal shield. “We’ll be in touch,” she adds, as they turn to run. “Probably quite soon.”

“No signal,” says Me, as they sprint back to their shuttle.

“What do you mean?”

“He _was_ here, I’m sure of it. The rebel radio feed is full of chatter about the Doctor. But I’m not picking up a TARDIS signature.”

“Back to square one?”

“Back to square one.”

* * *

 

Madame Vastra pours another cup of tea. A distraction, a displacement, River thinks. Something for the hands to do while the mind goes to work on a problem.

Except, of course, all of this is _in_ Vastra’s mind; a conference call across time and space to bring the Doctor’s allies together.

“I can put out the Paternoster regulars, of course,” says the detective. “If he stops by here we will know.”

“P’raps we can look over your findings too?” suggests Jenny.

River nods. “We’d be grateful,” she says graciously. “It’s… imperative that we reach him.”

Vastra inclines her head. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Spoilers?” says Strax, rolling the unfamiliar word around his mouth distastefully.

“Yes,” replies River. “All I can tell you is a creature of malign purpose and great power is seeking the Doctor.”

“Which is why, I suspect, you are also finding him so hard to pin down,” replies Vastra. “Whatever calamity this evil creature brings he seeks to avoid.”

“He can’t.”

“Oh?”

“The creature must be stopped.”

“And you yourself…?”

“If I could have done so, I would,” River answers simply.

“That troubles me greatly.”

“Me too.”

Vastra nods. “We place ourselves at your disposal. Come and visit us in our proper time and place. I’ll see what I can make of your investigation. Make my suggestion as to where to look next.”

“Thank you.”


	3. The Doctor's Creed

Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones. And sometimes, not everybody can live.

The Doctor stands; the blood of allies—of _friends_ —drying on shaking hands.

Today is not a good day.

“Doctor! We cannot hold them for long,” says the Captain. And on the edge of hearing, the cry of the Dalek advance. _Exterminate, exterminate_. Their solution. Not the Doctor’s. The _wrongness_ of this twists in the chest.

“When I detonate this charge it will set off a chain reaction in the star. There’ll be no going back.”

“But the Daleks will fall into the black hole.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be worth it, then.”

“No.”

_But you still have to choose._

A crackle on the Captain’s radio. “Zak? Zak? Are you there?”

“We’re receiving. What’s happening out there?”

“There’s another… and … leaving…!” Static garbles the answering message. The Doctor turns the sonic screwdriver away from the star-killer array, to the handset.

“Did not copy! Repeat!”

“Another ship has arrived. The Daleks are… the Daleks are retreating!” 

“What ship?” says the Doctor.

In answer, the cracked view-screen behind fritzes into life. “ _Hippocrates_ this is the _Sarah Connor_ calling. Request you disengage the star-killer array immediately, over.”

“Who are _they_?” breathes the Captain, pointing with the barrel of her gun to the women on screen.

“Old… friends.”

“ _Clara Oswald_ ,” drawls Missy, absurdly school-teacher in tone. “You bring that TARDIS here _right_ now. You’ve got some serious explaining to do.” With that, she kills the screen.

“Doctor?” says Captain Zak, needing a note of sanity injecting into proceedings. “Who’s _Clara Oswald_?”

“Technically,” the Doctor replies, “…that would be me.”

* * *

The airlock door opens with a pneumatic hiss. Clara Oswald strides inside, a strong smell of burnt plastic following her aboard. Her leather jacket is smoking slightly.

“What the _hell_ do you want?” she demands, hands on hips. “This is a class five defence cruiser. You’re breaching more interstellar defence treaties than I can count and—”

“Clara, Clara, Claaara,” mocks Missy. “You might think you _sound_ like him but—” Her words are lost in a blur of furious movement. It ends with the Time Lady pinned to a bulkhead, Clara’s arm laid across her throat.

“ _I_ am having a very bad day,” hisses Clara. Missy struggles, surprised to find the arm immovable. “The last time I saw _you_ , you were trying very hard to convince my friend to kill me. So by all means: _piss me off_.”

She releases Missy, who rubs her neck, supremely unperturbed. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“I am not nice.”

“Not anymore, certainly. I wonder who’s to blame for _that_?”

“Oh, shut up the pair of you before I smack your silly heads together!” River, reaching the end of her patience. Clara has the decency to look chagrined, Missy merely grins. “We’ve been looking for the Doctor. Why are you travelling under his name?”

Clara opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to find the words, but it is Missy who answers. “Because it’s not his name,” she says. “We three know that better than anyone. It’s a _title_. One you choose when you take on a particular job.”

“And what job is that?”

“Being an insufferable know-it-all across all of time and space,” sneers Missy. “What else?”

Clara rolls her eyes. “It’s a useful one to borrow when you’re fighting Daleks.” She gives an apologetic shrug. “Professor Song, I’m sorry I’m not the Doctor you were looking for. Can I still be of assistance?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” River replies. She pushes a button on the central console and the anxious face of Madam Vastra appears on screen, flanked by Jenny and the Lady Me.

“God, the whole gang really _is_ here,” Clara mutters.

“Did you find ‘im?” asks Jenny.

River shakes her head, beckoning Clara forward into view. “Not quite.”

“Clara!”

“Yep, hi, that’s me,” she replies, awkward. “Good to see you… all… again.”

Me smiles at her blushes. “You really are a _terrible_ liar.” 

“How can I help?” she says brightly, ignoring the sly comment.

“We are seeking the Doctor,” explains Vastra.

“I’d kinda… worked that one out.”

“We believe he may have travelled somewhere beyond the reach of conventional interstellar means.”

“But you’ve… you’ve got a TARDIS. Missy, you must have…?” She trails off at the Time Lady’s shaking head.

“Somewhere even a TARDIS cannot go,” confirm Vastra.

“Then he doesn’t want to be followed.”

“We have no choice,” River says softly. “The Ri’Jinn are pursuing him.”

Clara passes a hand in front of her eyes. “No. They’ve got the biggest battle-fleet in the galaxy. Even _he’s_ not stupid enough to… Oh, who am I kidding?” She sighs, removing the hand. “Of _course_ he’s stupid enough. I’m in. Let’s go, ladies.”


	4. Circle Time

“So, what am I looking at?” Clara’s palms are pressed against a standing stone, several feet taller than she. The rock feels rough, warm under her palms. Six sister stones are arranged in a circle, their feet still shod in unexcavated soil.

“It’s a Ri’Jinn stone circle. Commonly found throughout their home star system.”

“Hmm. Which is several million light years from here.”

“That’s why it caught my attention,” smiles River.  

“What do they do?”

“Historically they’re thought to be calendars. Counting down to Circle Time. Ri’Jinn religion is complicated, but they believe at certain times and places the Universe is thin enough to pass through. Into a place outside of the normal flow of time.”

“Is that true?”

River shrugs. “Perhaps. All the previous circles I’ve excavated had run out of time. The dates they referred to had passed.” She taps a complicated iconography scratched into the stone, incomprehensible to Clara without TARDIS translation.

“But not this one?”

“No. It’s counting down.”

“I assume there’s a reason you haven’t taken a TARDIS to the right date and seen for yourself what it does?”

River smiles again. “Proximity to time travelling ships stops the countdown.”

“How? How can a set of stones know that?”

“The last research team that tried to find out suggested they were receptive to Artron energy...”

“Tried?”

“Their entire lab was destroyed in a huge explosion. No survivors.”

“Oh _good_.” She releases the stone at last, and follows River away from the dig site. There is a tent pitched between the trunks of tall pines that surround the circle. “Is that _all_ the bad news?”

“Apparently a sizable portion of the Ri’Jinn fleet entered hyperspace a week ago.”

“Which means, if they’re heading here, they could appear within the next forty-eight hours. Just a _wild_ guess, but is the countdown for the circle due to end in that time?”

“Yes.”

Clara screws up her face. “Of course. Well, we could use the TARDISes to set up false Artron signatures to lead them astray. Maybe buy enough time for some of us to go through.”  She catches River’s expression and sighs. “What else?”

“Vastra and Jenny have a commitment to history to keep. They already know too much about what’s happening here for the timeline to be safe. They can’t spend forever looking for the Doctor. Not with Strax at home looking after their investigations.”

“And Missy and Lady Me will need to pilot the TARDISes. So, it’s a two-woman mission then.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “That’s pretty much how I roll.”

“I can’t come with you.”

“What? Why?”

“Not enough pages left in my diary.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not staying behind because of a stationery crisis. That’s the most ridiculous—”

“The Doctor gave me this,” River continues, producing the battered volume from her bag. “He’s the kind of man who would know how many pages it would need. We can’t all cheat death.”

Clara flinches at that, biting her lip for a moment. “We cheat death all the time. Even if it’s a fixed point, there’s no saying—”

“My decision is made.”

Brown eyes meet blue for a long moment, until eventually Clara nods. She leaves the archaeologist under the fragrant pines, trudging on to where the shuttle is parked.

* * *

Me is waiting for her when she returns to orbit, curled like a cat in a yellow button-backed armchair she has installed in the console room.

“You’ve redecorated,” says her former companion.

“So many happy memories associated with that old desktop,” Clara quips, “why wouldn’t I keep it?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, there’s no need for me to be so rude.”

“You’re still angry.”

“I need longer,” she nods. The tick and hum of her ship is reassuring under her hands as she leans back against the console. G _oing to miss this_ , she thinks.  “To forgive—”

“And I to forget,” finishes Me, rising from her chair. Her fingers catch Clara under the chin, raising her face gently to meet the immortal’s steady gaze. “Time heals all wounds. Eventually.”

“So I’ve been told.” Clara turns away, flicking switches pointlessly, until the lump in her throat is swallowed. “Anyway. How do you feel about driving the old man again?”

“I’m looking forward to it. A challenge to keep out of range of Ri’Jinn weaponry.” 

 “I want him back without a scratch on him,” she replies, mock-stern, then chuckles. “Come on. I could do with a hand packing, if you’re willing to help?”

“Always,” Me replies, smiling sadly. 


	5. Departure

The forest smells of wet earth and new growth on her return, thawing spring. Birds whistle, flitting from evergreen branch to branch. Around the stones the air tastes like burning tin, River’s hair beginning to lift with static.

“Time to go?”

“Are you ready?”

“I am. Are you?” Clara fiddles with the shoulder strap of her small rucksack, avoiding eye contact for a moment. “Come with me. Come on, I know you want to.”

She risks a glance and finds River smiling. That wry, slightly sad smile. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

Golden curls bounce as she shakes her magnificent head. “I told you. Not enough pages left in the diary.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about that.” Clara’s fingers close around the stiff corners of the book in her pocket. “How about a second volume?”

She expected amusement, or rage. Instead River turns away, eyes on the ground. “No,” she says softly.

“From one Doctor on behalf of the other—”

“No.” She does not shout. She is not angry. Simply resigned.

Clara sighs. “I don’t understand.”

“I know. Because you’re right to borrow his title. Anyone else using his name and I’d scratch out their eyes but you… You _are_ the Doctor. You both hate endings. You don’t do goodbyes. There’s always a clever plan; a way around.”

“So?”

“So… I want every moment of our history together to be left as it was lived. For better or for worse. And that includes our _goodbye_.”

“But you haven’t—”

“But _he_ has.” River’s fingers touch briefly on the screwdriver at her belt. “I know what’s coming. I’ve accepted it. And so will he, eventually. I want to keep my happy ending. What?”

Clara’s own smile, twisting up at the corners. “Nothing. I just… I can see why he married you.”

“I married him. Don’t let him tell you any different. Now…” She places her hands on Clara’s shoulders. “Don’t forget to give him this from me.”

“Give him wh—?” Her foolish question is cut off by River’s kiss, surprisingly tender, although her iron grip on Clara’s arm leaves no illusion as to who exactly is in control of their embrace.

 “You can keep a little of that for yourself too,” says the Doctor’s wife, when she finally withdraws.

There is a curious sound, like a grinding millstone. They turn together to find the stones have started to revolve gently, their iconography now illuminated in glittering blue.

Clara squares her shoulders. “Right. No one is to get themselves killed here. Once I’m through, get the hell out of the way.” She steps cautiously inside the circle. “So, what do we think?” she ponders, turning back to face the Professor. “Magic words? Or do I just picture—?”

With that, she winks out of existence.

* * *

She lands, hard, on bare rock. The fall would have shattered bones in her previous life. Now she merely winces; pain has always been the hardest habit to cast off, even if she is indestructible. It is night-time but the sea of stars overhead cast enough light to pick out detail. The constellations are unfamiliar; she has moved a long way, in time as well as space.

Polygonal stacks of rock stretch away in every direction. Seven tall pillars form a rough circle around her, iconography carved into their smooth surfaces fading blue to black. She pulls out a mini-comp from her pack, scanning the curling letters. _Today’s date. Huh_.

Perhaps this is a landing pad and the Doctor is somewhere close at hand. She picks her way across the lava field, heading downwards on general principles, with no other guiding features in the landscape to be seen.

She walks for three days across the alien landscape, endless miles of black basalt rock. Day and night the same, the regular pendulum swing of left and right. She does not need sleep, or food, or rest. _Perhaps River knew_ , she thinks, the thought chasing around her brain step after step. _Only an automaton could endure this; the zombie made by Time Lord witchery._

There is no sign of the Doctor. There is no sign of anything living, other than the restless planet’s core, which produces hissing jets of gas and ominous rumbles as she walks. Pace after pace, on and on, down the slopes of an immense volcano.

Dawn of the fourth day reveals the glimmer of blue ocean on the horizon and she makes for the sea. There is no sandy beach, the rocks platform out under the waves; a boundary of creative force against destructive.

Her fingers find the stiff cover of the diary in her pocket as she weighs up whether it is worth starting to swim. Yes, she decides, she will swim. But in the interests of preserving sanity, a moment’s pause to record what has come so far.

She has barely finished a sentence when the boat edges around an outthrust of rock. It is barely more than a raft; lashed-together logs and tattered sail. She leaps to her feet, waving at the pilot who paddles in closer to the infant shoreline.

“Hey!” she calls.

“Hey!” the pilot shouts back, mirroring her waving arms.

“Any chance of a lift?”

She grins in response to this, and rattles off a reply in a language Clara does not understand. She is about to pull out the mini-comp, with its rough and ready translation software, when the woman says her name. “Clara Oswald.”

“Yes,” she nods, touching a hand to her chest. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Doctor.”

“That’s right. I’m looking for him,” she says, still nodding.

“Janel,” says the woman, tapping her own chest. She motions to the front of her boat and Clara understands, splashing from stone to stone until she is close enough to jump aboard.

“Thank you Janel,” she smiles.

The journey takes a fortnight. An ever increasing band of followers join her and Janel as they walk, the landscape gradually changing from bare rock to virgin earth. Talking and laughing, her companions pick wildflowers and eat strips of dried fish. They offer the latter freely to Clara, who accepts gratefully. She feigns sleep when they rest each evening, and tries to remember to breathe.

The second circle is similar to the first, seven pillars of basalt thrust high out of the ground. Despite herself, her heart sinks at the sight of it. Others are waiting when they arrive, with more food and flowers. A veritable feast, singing and dancing but no sign of the Doctor. Another jump to be made, she assumes.

She waits until cover of darkness to scan the icons, until all of the camp followers appear asleep. Three times she scans, in disbelief at the mini-comp at first.

There are twenty-five years to wait.

“Oh, Doctor,” she breathes. “What have you _done_?”


	6. Higher Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Italics indicate speech not comprehensible to Clara]

“There was more than one,” says Me, staring up at the TARDIS display. “More than one circle she had to pass through.”

“Yes, I thought there would be.”

There are spreading ripples, changes in the fabric of time the TARDIS can track and trace. The emergence of a new story, a myth written as they watch.

“The Wayfarer,” reads Me, tracing a line of circular prose. “The Woman Without a Home.” She winces. “At least a hundred years on an ice-ball world, look. That can’t have been fun.”

The pattern blurs and changes, become eye-watering in complexity. River looks grim. “A _lot_ more than one circle. We did the right thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“No one else could have done this. Not even you. You might be immortal but you’re not indestructible. You need food and sleep in order to keep moving. Air. Some of these planets have none of that.”

Me shuts down the readout. “Sound fairly torturous to me.”

“Whatever he’s done, wherever he’s gone, the only person he wants to find him is Clara.”

“I’m still not sure that’s a good thing. When she died… all of time and space was at risk from him. They’re dangerous together.”

“More dangerous than the shadow?” River presses buttons and a new story replaces Clara’s journey.

“World Eater,” breathes Me. “How many now has it taken?”

“The Ri’Jinn homeworlds are gone. What’s left of their peoples have fled with the remains of their fleet. An empire of ten thousand years broken in days.”

“Yes,” says Me, retreating to the button-back chair.

“Yes?”

“They’re more dangerous. But perhaps that’s what we need.”

River nods, continuing to watch the unfolding darkness on screen.

* * *

There are scrubby pines here, roots dug into the thin soil of the rocky slope. She can smell ice on the wind. Around her the slates of the circle slow and stop; whatever strange science powering their movement fails. She takes a deep lungful of clean mountain air, relief after six months of burning desert heat. A rough track is trodden down from the stones, a welcome sign of habitation. Birds sing and everywhere she can hear the rush of water as her feet follow the path. It is sleeting by the time she reaches a timber stack; her fingers trace the bite of iron axes into the wood before she passes on, quiet as a shadow.

An hour later she finds the lumberjack, toiling on the hill. She waves cheerily as Clara passes, indicating with her axe that the stranger should continue to follow the trail. Half an hour further, and she can see the houses of the village fringing the fjord.

There are men working on the boat in the dock, dressed in fur. One of them catches sight of the stranger, out of place in her ragged desert-wear amongst piles of melting snow. He swings down from his boat and crosses to her, extending a ham-sized hand.

“Hello,” says Clara. She isn’t sure what language she’s speaking anymore, and it doesn’t matter.  

“ _Welcome,_ ” he replies, “ _the Sage has spoken of you.”_

“Yes,” she replies, “the Doctor. That’s who I’m looking for.”

“ _He is visiting the Northlands. We are happy to take you on my ship.”_ He points, and Clara smiles, accepting the offer without needing to understand the details.

They are swiftly underway, the crew paddling the longboat out of the docks before unfurling their mainsail. At the prow, Clara hear the canvas snap behind her. The boat surges forward. Sleet is fast becoming snow, whipping her cheeks. She shivers, but remains pale.

 _“You will be needing these, Wandering One,_ ” says the Captain, handing her a bundle of silvery furs and a pair of crampons. He mimes dressing, and Clara laughs.

“Yes, I understand,” she says. “Clara,” she adds, placing a hand on her chest before reaching out to touch the Captain’s.

“Doriel,” he replies, clasping her fingers briefly. “ _I’m glad that I had the chance to meet you._ ”

The men of the ship know the coast and navigate with that in view. Years ago she might have set the mini-comp running, building a dictionary of their musical language. Now she merely watches; listens as the men shout back and forth. What is said is so little of human communication, and she absorbs language faster by using it than learning rote.  

“ _You are very like him,”_ says Doriel, as the men douse sail, ready to paddle again towards land. “ _You watch like the ship’s cat._ ” He hands her a rough crust of rye bread, ration for the journey on.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she tries and he smiles.

“ _A scholar too, eh?_ _We’re coming up on the pass now. You will have to jump! There is no landing point here.”_ He mimes with his fingers, little legs taking a running jump off the ship and onto the approaching shore.

The men bring the boat around, close to the rough coastline as they dare. There is still a sizable expanse of icy water between boat and land. Old, old habits make her draw a breath as she considers the jump and _leaps_.

Her crampons bite into thick snow; she lands to cheers from the men aboard. Even through the fresh fall there is a discernible track of compacted snow heading up and away. A few hundred metres uphill she finds a fingerpost, half buried in the drift and hung with icicles. It points her on.

She remembers the knack of moving through snow after a while, as the track curves westwards, where the sun is beginning to pink the sky. It is still hovering low on the horizon when she reaches the tongue of the glacier. The fingerpost here is an enormous totem; a considerable feat for any crew to have dragged the carved trunk to this point, let alone sink it deep into the ice. A choice between west and north.

She considers the elaborately carved faces, further pitted and scored by the elements, as she tries to decide a course. Circles are normally found on the higher ground. She will climb—

She blinks.

Just for a moment a figure seemed visible, half obscured by the blowing snow, on the edge of her vision. She stands perfectly still; waits. Another gust of icy wind and she is sure. There is someone walking the northern ridgeline.

She picks her way across the ice towards the figure. Her pace quickens despite herself; if she had a heart to beat it would be thumping. _This is nonsense_ , her sensible self tells the rest of her. What, after all, are the chances that it is him after all this time? And yet she finds that she is running, sprinting, snow dragging at her legs. He too breaks into a run and _then_ she is certain; something in his gait gives him away as he hurtles toward her.

Neither of them try to stop or slow down. She cannons into him—surprisingly solid beneath his layer of fur—and finds herself spinning, feet off the ground, enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. When he eventually puts her down he clutches her arms, as if afraid she will somehow fly away. “Clara Oswald,” he says, wonderingly.

“You remember.” A statement rather than a question. The words seem to come from far, far away, her brain flapping in the pink sky high above, convinced this is a dream.

“Everything,” he replies, and she is aware of words unsaid bubbling underneath, wrong for this time and place. He folds his fingers around hers and she finds tears prick her eyes at the gesture, familiar and longed for, even after all this time. “It’s dinner time,” he continues, “if you’d like to join me?”

She laughs, squeezing his hand. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

They retrace his footsteps, up and over the ridge, hand in hand.


	7. Whale Soup

“This is Dorelle’s house,” he explains, as they cross the fence-line of a squat lodge. “It’ll be whale soup. How are you with eating, anyway? I forgot to ask.”

“Eating is fine,” she replies. “Digesting… less good.”

“Oh. Well, that’s quite disgusting,” he continues, making a face. “And totally not worth it for whale soup. But she does get quite cross if people refuse her hospitality.”

“I’ll manage. Is she related to Doriel, by any chance?”

“Her son, the harbour captain. Ah! He gave you a lift here. Good man.”

He pushes open the door to the cabin and she is enveloped in welcome warmth. An enormous range occupies one side of the building, in front of which a woman is cooking. She must be at least a foot taller than Clara, and built to Venus of Willendorf proportions.

“ _You’re back then, Old Fool_ ,” says Dorelle, without turning around.

“ _Yes_ ,” replies the Doctor. “ _They’re well at Holdfastings. The baby came fine. I bought a visitor, by the way.”_

Dorelle turns, and Clara finds herself under uncomfortable scrutiny; the woman’s green-eyed gaze piercing.

“ _I knew she’d be beautiful._ ”

“ _Is she?”_

_“Old Fool, don’t try my patience. You’re a strange man, but a man nonetheless. Does she eat? She’s nearly as scrawny as you are.”_

“Doctor?”

“Ah, she’s just saying you’re very welcome,” he lies. “ _I’ve warned her about your cooking, don’t worry.”_

“Shoo!” Dorelle returns, flicking him with her apron. _“I’ve fed seven healthy children and two husbands on this broth.”_

_“I remember.”_

“You’ve known each other a long time,” Clara hazards.

The Doctor nods. “Since she was a little girl.”

“ _What are you telling her?”_

“ _How we met when you were a little girl.”_

_“Lies! I was never little.”_ Dorelle says this to Clara, who looks inquiringly at the Doctor.

“She was just saying how grateful she was that I pulled her from a crevasse and fixed her broken leg before she was eaten by ice bears.”

_“Don’t believe any bullshit about ice bears and broken legs,_ ” continues Dorelle, “ _I’d never have been on the glacier in the first place if it wasn’t for this idiot_.”

“Thank you Dorelle,” he says expansively, “that’s a lovely thing to say.”

“No it wasn’t,” laughs Clara. “I like her.” She accepts her bowl of promised soup and takes hearty spoonful.

It is the Doctor’s turn to grin. “Horrible, isn’t it?”

Clara forces herself to swallow. “Delicious,” she lies.

_“Whale soup,”_ says Dorelle, _“Tastes bloody awful but it puts meat on your bones in this frozen wasteland of a place. Ah, if you’d only come in winter. I’d have made you a real feast back at Halinfijord.”_ She turns away, eyes misting.

“She’s sad,” says Clara.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s never going to see me again and we’ve been friends a long time.”

“What?” She can barely hear him over the sudden ringing in her own ears. “Why?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

She tries to keep the note of panic out of her voice. “But I only just found you.”  

His eyes dart left and right, awkward. “Well, I was rather hoping you would come with me.”

“Oh.” Realisation dawns and she blushes fiercely. “Sorry I- I should give you some time—”

“Stay. Finish your soup. It’s the least you can do for her.”

She does as he asks, as Dorelle and the Doctor talk quietly. To her surprise the giantess responds to the empty bowl by hugging her fiercely. “ _I know you’ll look after him,”_ she says, “ _You’ve the same sadness in your eyes. Fare well, Wandering One.”_

Clara steps outside, giving them a moment of privacy. When the Doctor finally joins her in the cold twilight there are tears on his cheeks, but a look of resolve she knows too well.

“It’s not far,” he says, holding out his hand.

In fact, it’s about twenty minutes of steep climb, to a short plateau that offers a spectacular view. Clara can just make out the twinkling lights of a village, a long way away.

“Circles are always on the high ground,” she says.

“Are they?”

“Because you come up where you can see them, don’t you? Before you leave.” He shrugs, confirmation enough that she is right. “Where are we going, Doctor?”

“Nowhere yet,” he replies gravely. “I want you to take a deep breath.”

“Why? I don’t need oxygen.”

“No, but I know you. You’ll have something to say.” He grins.

“There’s no air on the other side?”

“No yet.”

“Okay.”

As she fills her lungs he turns away from her, hunching slightly. Seven stones slide up through the snow, limestone slates that glitter blue. “Ready?"

She nods, and the world falls away from her feet. 


	8. Heaven

She is braced for impact but this time there is no landing. Instead she is suspended in space, the Doctor’s hand her only point of contact.

They are floating amongst the shattered ruins of a planet. Continent sized chunks of rock slowly spin, and clouds of gas bend the light of the nearby stars in a psychotropic haze of colour. It is beautiful and it is terrible and there are no words to be said; not even the questions of _why_ or _how_.

His eyes are closed, frowning in concentration, and before her the fragments of planet begin to accelerate towards one another; a slow motion picture show gradually running up to speed. The ragged wisps of gas are not enough to convey the sound of landmasses colliding to her ears but she can _feel_ the tremendous energy. More and more pieces of rock start to rush past, to join a cataclysm in reverse. It takes a moment for her to realise they are also accelerating rapidly towards the new planet.

For a moment everything is bathed in golden light; the heat of their descent through a proto-atmosphere scorching the air. It doesn’t hurt. Perhaps her brain simply can’t interpret this to provide a simulacra of the sensations she would have felt if she was alive. Thankfully. The air assumes a treacle-like thickness, cushioning them, until her feet make ground with cat-like softness.

She can hear him humming now, as all around the earth puckers and splits. Fiery arcs of lava spit across huge plains like the lash of a whip. Purple lighting stabs, a flickering strobe. The planet belches out more of her core to birth new continents; roiling clouds cry enough rain to fill the seas. Bare rock at her feet is suddenly carpeted blue-green. A tide of moss ebbs and flows until shrubs replace lichens, and acorns blossom into tall oaks within seconds. The rise and fall of epochs is underscored by him singing a tune he once picked out on guitar.  

He opens his eyes and there is a feeling of deceleration, the roar of time replaced by chirruping insects and birds. They are standing on the edge of a lake surrounded by steaming jungle. She finally exhales the breath of another world as a butterfly lands briefly on her arm. It flits on, to drink the nectar of a brilliant red orchid, and he clears his throat.  

“So,” he says, grinning in that boyish way he has when he thinks he’s being impressive, “what do you think of my planet?”

She swallows, trying to find the right words. How can anything encapsulate the majesty of what she has just witnessed; the impossibility of it all? She opens and closes her mouth, still agog at the buzzing rainforest he has conjured before her eyes. He is watching her carefully, awaiting her approval and _God!_ How can it have been centuries since she last saw that wolfish grin? The very fundamentals of physics have been torn asunder in front of her eyes, and yet _nothing_ between them is changed. And she smiles, knowing the answer to his question like the words of a script.

“Show off,” she says.

His eyebrows shoot into his hair, mock outraged, until laughter bubbles up from underneath. She is laughing too, crying with it; both of them barely able to stand with the mirth.

“Yeah, I suppose it was a bit,” he manages eventually.

Her cheeks are aching with the mirror of the smile he wears, and there are questions she should be asking, answers that _must_ be sought, but she can’t— _won’t—_ care about that right now. “Come on. Let’s go and explore.”

* * *

She has no idea how long they have been walking through the rainforest when they find the beach. Hours, maybe. Or days. It’s a haze of wonder; digging fingers into the rooted soil and following creeping vines from buttress to branch; the oil-drop eyes of mouse-deer on the forest floor and the whiskers of a cat-like predator brushing past. Ripe fruit and sweet scent. Perhaps she is dead, and to explore this Eden with him is her heaven. A paradise of colourful cawing birds and squabbling monkeys. _Look, look, look_ is their mantra, a language of pointing fingers and tugged sleeves; of helping hands neither of them need but greedily receive.  

And now a beach of the proper tropical white sand, blue sea, picture-postcard variety. She drops to the warm sand laughing, lies back and spreads her arms wide. Sun on skin, eyes closed to better feel the texture of the grains that shift underneath her as she makes a sand angel. When is it that she has last made time to appreciate every tick and speck of the universe around her like this? 

 _‘Let’s go make another_ ,’ she wants to say, and ‘ _let’s stay here forever_.’ They’ve given enough time to saving worlds; surely they have earned the right to enjoy some. What terrible price can the cost of simply _being_ be?

She sighs. _Only all of time and space_ , she reminds herself. The consequence of a missed appointment with the inevitable. She opens her eyes to find he is casting a shadow, watching the breaking waves.

“When are we going to talk about it?” she asks lightly.

“Ooh, how about… never?”

She chuckles. “That’d be great, wouldn’t it?”

His fingers trail in the sand, aimless patterns. “Sunset,” he decrees.


	9. Sunset

He wanders solo along the shoreline as purple creeps into the evening sky. She lets him go, finding driftwood to build a fire, stripping off her salt-stiff outer layers to wash with tomorrow’s rainwater.  The sun is a finger’s width above the horizon when he returns, the sky filled with stars beyond count.

“I don’t recognise one of them,” she says. “Not a constellation.”

“You’re a long way from home.” He sits beside her. “I can teach you. That one there… that’s the school teacher. See, those three stars line up so she’s wagging her finger at you.”

“Hmm, I _do_ see.” She sights along his arm, and nudges his pointing finger right. “That means… that one there must be the stick insect, avoiding her questions.”  

He gives her a withering look. “You haven’t changed.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I have. You just bring out the worst in me.”

“Yes. I suppose that was always the problem.”

There is such an aching sadness in his face her hand moves without volition to cup his cheek. “Doctor,” she says, for want of anything better. “That’s not what I meant.”

“There was a story,” he says at last, “on one of the Ri’Jinn homeworlds. About the Circle Time and who built the first stone portals. I went to investigate because…” He looks confused for a moment, unable to recall his precise reason for violating jealously guarded territory.

“Because you’re _you_?” Clara supplies, knitting her fingers with his.

“I suppose. I was captured. Tortured. They thought I knew how to translate some ancient carvings, that I could give them access to Time That Was. I couldn’t. Even the TARDIS can’t translate the language they’re written in. But I had seen it before; a long time ago on a planet called Krop Tor. It was a prison for an entity of great power and monstrous evil. We destroyed it. Rose… Rose destroyed it.”

“You didn’t tell them?”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I told them everything. Krop Tor fell into a black hole centuries ago and the Beast fell with it. It didn’t _matter_. But there was something else, their commander said. Secrets I was holding, supressed memories that avoided their most sophisticated extraction techniques.”

_Oh no._ “The neuro block.”

“Yes. It took a very, very long time to break.”  

Stars wheel overhead in the silence. His knuckles are white, so tight is she holding on to his hand. “Doctor, I’m _sorry_.”

He shakes his head, eyes dark. “Not your fault. Anyway, it broke and they gave me one last chance to translate the carvings. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to, my head was just full of…ah…” The words seem to stick in his mouth.

“Full of what?” she asks, confused.

Silence balloons, his throat working awkwardly. “You,” he manages eventually.  

She closes her eyes, fighting against tears that threaten to fall; failing. “How did you escape?”

“I read the words.”

“But-you just said... How?”

“Maybe a better way of putting it would be that the words read _me_. There were two tablets. Two consciousness trapped in stone. One a creative force, a Disciple of the Light. One a destructive. The first… chose me. The second went to the Ri’Jinn commander.”

“But it’s not controlling you now?”

“Light doesn’t work like the darkness. It doesn’t take control. Wouldn’t be very Good if it did, I suppose. It’s more… like a hybrid.”

“No,” she says softly, “no, the Hybrid was-”

“That’s the trouble with ancient prophecies,” he shrugs, “they tend not to be terribly specific.”

“So what happened next?” 

“What do you think? Me being me... I ran.”  


	10. Truth

“You’re very quiet.”

He is propped against a rock, leafing through her diary. She lies a few feet away, on her bedroll in the circle of flickering firelight.

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh. Well it had to happen sometime. _Ow!_ ” A well-aimed pebble bounces harmlessly off his arm. 

“Shut up.” She props herself up on her elbows. “Something doesn’t make sense.”

He comes to sit at her side again, obedient. “What doesn’t make sense?”

“You ran. All this way, to the edge of the Universe; hiding out here amongst fractured planets and dying stars. Trying to make the worlds you touch a better place, but hiding; what you are now, what you can do.”

“Yes.”

“But you left a trail.” He is silent as she continues. “All those circles like breadcrumbs. Laid out for me. Why?”

He looks irritated now. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, _yes_ it matters! You put all your other allies, your _friends,_ out of reach. Everyone but me, the one companion you must never see. Why?”

 “What do you want me to say?” He finds his feet, stalks away towards the sea. 

“The _truth_!” she snaps, following. She pulls him around to face her, annoyed that even on tip-toes she’s still several inches from eye-to-eye. “What is it you’re not telling me?” she demands.  

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it—”

“ _Liar_!” she roars. “One more chance. Tell me the truth, Doctor, or I swear I’ll—”

“I missed you.”  

“—I’ll… what?”

“I missed you,” he repeats, softer this time; ashamed. “Your insight, your advice. Ha, even your orders. Right now… I don’t know how to be the Doctor. But _you_ do.”

“You made me walk for _two hundred years_ to come here and be your conscience?”

“I didn’t _make_ you. You had a choice. All of those worlds and you never questioned? You never stopped?”

“Of course I didn’t stop!”

“Why?”

A little bit of humour escapes through gritted teeth. “It’s not as clever as you think, that trick of turning a question around.” He merely raises an eyebrow in response and she sighs. “I didn’t stop because… because…” She is suddenly unable to bear his gaze. “I missed you too,” she finally manages, in a small voice.

It isn’t quite enough, but nothing ever will be. She’ll walk across worlds to find him; he’ll punch his way through eternity. What’s an _I love you_ compared to that? After an interminable moment of red-hot embarrassment, she risks a glance up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too.”

“And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For coming.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.” She leans up, intending to plant a kiss on his cheek. He turns his head slightly, in that owlish way he has when she confuses him, and she misses her mark. Her lips catch the corner of his mouth instead.

The Universe holds its breath. She thinks of the grains of sand on the beach, of savouring every tiny moment of sensation. Tries to fix in her mind the strange crawling electricity of this moment; the surprising softness of his face against her cheek; the smell of his skin. _I will not pull back_ , she thinks, sick of minding the boundaries of their painfully controlled affection.

But neither does he. Instead, with exquisite gentleness he raises a hand; thumb tracing her ear, fingers tangling in her hair. “Clara,” he says desperately, against her mouth.

“Yes,” she replies, answer to the question unasked.

Eyes flutter closed, his breathing suddenly shallow and uneven. A kiss, two; tiny. The merest brush of his lips across hers. She kisses him back, insistent, until he breaks in a hungry rush. She can taste him, feel him shaking with need as he pulls her body against his. His chest hitches as she escapes his mouth, blindly kissing his cheeks, his neck; nipping his earlobe before he reclaims her. It’s un-choreographed and clumsy, noses bumping and desperate hands unable to settle, and _God_ does it make her go weak at the knees.

He tugs at her shirt; swiftly deposited on the sand while he shrugs awkwardly out of his ragged equivalent. The warmth of his bare skin makes her gasp reflexively as they embrace again. His hands, his mouth are in worship of her body now. _Look, look, look_ , she thinks; as he calls to her attention all that he finds as wondrous as the beauty of the forest; as she reciprocates in kind. Fumble fingered, she unbuttons him by inches.

He moans softly at her touch. “Clara,” he manages.

“Shut up,” she growls, and pulls him down to the bedroll.


	11. Three Days

Dawn chases the stars away, constellations fading in the cornflower blue. He is doing a passable impression of sleep next to her, head lolling back, breathing deep and even. A rare sight; she’s seen him unconscious, drugged, passed-out exhausted, but never quietly snoozing like this. He looks curiously vulnerable in the blankets. Skin so pale he’s almost translucent in the golden dawn, marked in fading red by her mouth, her nails; the friction of her body against his. Her skin refuses to wear this evidence of their time together. She is always pristine.

The thought sends a pang of sadness through her. She kisses his bared throat for distraction, and settles back against him. Unexpected, his arm folds around, pulling her closer. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” His voice rumbles in his chest under ear. “You moved.”

“Sorry.”

He opens one eye. “What are you worrying about now?”

“What?”

“You only apologise like that when you’re thinking about something you know I’ll disagree with.”

“I’m not that predictable,” she bristles.

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“I was—” She opens and closes her mouth a few times. “Alright, fine. I was wondering what now.” He shifts against her in answer, revealing his arousal, clearly enjoying her sharp little intake of breath. “Avoiding the issue? Very you.”

“Not avoiding. Delaying.” He kisses her pout softly. “Are you complaining?”

“No…” _But my resolve is slipping_. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“I’m not asking for forever,” he says sadly, “just a little time.” His thumb traces a line from hip to rib, and she shivers.

“Three days,” she says, and it’s promise to herself as much as him.

“Three days what?”

“Three days of pretending we don’t have a universe of problems to solve. Three days’ holiday from reason. Then we have to make a plan. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees.

“Good.” She straddles him in one swift movement. “Now where were we?”

* * *

_What are you_ , she thinks. His nose traces the length of her jaw, breath ragged against her neck as he nudges her legs apart. They are high on a ridgeline, sprawled on a bed of moss. Ostensibly here for the view. More likely, she thinks, being here is symptom of his strange determination to fuck her across a whole landscape—beach to mountain top.

She’s not complaining. As he pushes inside her she finds her fingers are dragging at his hips, pulling him closer, closer. Entwined in this gasping duet she pretends a cruel universe can no longer prise them apart. Their edges are blurred. It’s not just the physical aspect, convenient as it is that Time Lord Tab A fits Human Slot B.  He’s in her mind as well as her body; the weight of his love for her, his guilt and sorrow, settle in her chest to mingle with her own. The rush of release unties that tangled knot of grief; steals something back from years of yearning.

_What are you,_ she thinks, later, as he strips off his tattered rags to swim naked in the pool of a shining waterfall. _Answer: the Doctor._ There is a bruise on his hip and stubble on his jaw. Whatever strange power moves through him to build worlds is hidden, like a claw. Time and space no longer bend around him; effect follows cause. She swims over to him, pushes back damp curls of his hair to find his smiling eyes. Proves her point, watching his pupils dilate, adam’s apple bobbing as water beads on her bare skin. She kisses him permission, fierce; he carries her from the water to continue their search for heady oblivion.

There’s presumably a limit to his endurance, out there to be found. No sign of it here. Fingers dig into her flesh reflexively as she moves over him, every hitch and sigh exquisite torture. There’s method in the madness of the extraction chamber. Her looping processes struggle with digestion, but they do allow her to eat. She can taste, she can smell. Feel and cry. And this, oh, this. Surely they were built then to allow one last meal, one last kiss?   _What am I_ , she thinks, suddenly sick. _An echo, a ghost? One long last goodbye?_

_Clara_ , he says, and it takes a moment for her to realise the word has found its way into her head without bothering to go by way of the ears. Edges blurred indeed. _That’s what you are. My Clara_.

_My Doctor,_ she thinks, and is undone again.


End file.
